Mothers
by Tokyo Sunset
Summary: Behind every great man and whatnot...
1. Mrs DeGroot

**A/N: **A one-shot collection dedicated to the single thing dearest to me, that helped me shape my life and turned me into the (un)stable person I am today. (And it isn't the Internet.)

Mrs. DeGroot, as well as quite close to canon, is loosely based off my grandmother. And by loosely, I mean quoted almost _verbatim_.

* * *

The glass felt cold on her arthritis-ridden hands, occasionally jolting up as they reached the frame and returned to sliding down the surface. The fingertips explored the already too familiar glass, and were now aware of every small abrasion and groove made by her long, hard nails. If she were to trust the manicurist, they were painted purple.

It must have been around seven o'clock. It couldn't have been six in the morning; the sprinkler system has already shut down after it watered the home's pristine jade-green lawn, the only patch of green on that side of New Mexico. Then again, it couldn't have been eight o'clock. For one, her Tavish was still home. Also, the light that peered through the supposedly clear windows shone on her cold legs. Shards f ice flew through her feet, but the sunshine warmed up the surface. It was like blowing a frozen turkey with a hair-dryer set on low. It didn't do much, but something was indeed happening to the numb flesh, though it did not make that much of a difference.

_Clang-clang!_

_Clink!_

_Srrrrrrrp…_

She placed the framed photograph on her lap, covered with a thick tartan blanket. It was the only blanket she kept after her son and she moved into this vast estate, and the only blanket reminding her that these prime earning years of his were not going to last. She held tightly onto her long, smooth cane. A swish here and there, there was a coffee table right in front of her. It was two inches closer than yesterday. The maid must have moved it. She would have to fire her later on.

_Clang-clang!_

_Ching!_

"Damn," said her son, presumably stopping a spinning saucer. With a sigh of relief, he placed a small porcelain object on top of it. She moved her nose up and called out to him.

"Tavish?"

No response.

She felt her small, round sunglasses slipping off her arched nose. She propped it up, her acrylic nail poking her wrinkled forehead. She put her hand down on the tartan quilt once more.

"Tavish!"

"Yea mum?" He asked, pouring some liquid into the cup.

"What're you doing here this late, boy? Shouldn't ya be off workin'?" She spoke in a shrill tone, heavily accented thanks to the years spent in her homeland, the life she had as a Demowoman in the Highlands. Her son sighed.

"'T's Thursday, mum. I have a mornin' off."

"Funny, ya didn't have mornin's off yesterday?" She asked, her tone more skeptical than curious.

"Yesterday wa'nt Thursday."

"I recall you havin' several jobs Thursday…" She extended her aching hand, slowly folding one finger at a time as she ticked off the occupations. "That job at RED, the construction sites…"

"Yea, mum. Later in the day. I'm free until ten at least."

She furrowed her thick eyebrows, her mouth moving to the side. If she had any strength left in her, she would have taken that cane and smacked him over the head for being so rude to her.

"Oh dear me…" she began, ignoring her son's irritated sigh. "It starts that way… first the mornin', then the full day, then the pink slip…"

"Fer God's sake, mum! It's just me mornin' off!"

"Oh, don't tell me!" She yelped, her hand grabbing the cane and lifting it up over her head, where it hovered above her thin, black hair. She was told a couple of white streaks crossed it in parts, but she did not pay attention to those people. She continued; "Don't tell me, son! Yer fired! I knew it!"

"I'm not fired, mum-…"

"And where's that leave you? Jobless! Unable tae provide fer ya'self. For shame, for shame…"

"I am not jobless, mum! I'm managing three jobs!"

"Managin'? Ha!" She cackled, lowering the cane as she heard his footsteps. "Yer Da, God bless his soul,…"

"…had twenty-six jobs, yes, ya told me." He walked into the room, his footsteps louder and his voice seemingly cooler as he saw his mother.

"_And _he taught ya all the tricks of the trade! Nobody made bombs as well as he did, believe you me…"

Her walking aid made impact with the floor, the thud muffled by the thick, brown carpet. She lowered her head and ran her fingers across the picture frame. It had a small rough patch on the edge.

"I know where yer Da is now…" she said, staring blankly into the darkness around her. "Spinnin' in his grave."

"Mmm-hmm," Tavish responded, his attention detached. Work seemed easier than this, somehow. A couple of bombs here, a few grenades there, a sip of Scrumpy and he'd be done. This took concentration and dedication, surviving another one of these talks.

"Yer in ya prime, Tavish, 'member that, will you? Make lots of money an' manage it well. Don't forget, I'm the one who got you to-!"

"Buy this house, I know, mum." He placed the tray on the polished coffee table. She knew it was polished, because when she tried to put her sore feet on it, they slid right off. "Tea's up."

"And then there's the tea," she said, leaning over her picture and taking the saucer, the cup trembling on it. She sipped the liquid loudly.

"Wot about tha tea?!" Tavish asked, unable to control his tone. There was guilt in his voice, guilt that he spoke to her in such a manner. The newest workplace has taken a toll on him.

She finished sipping and smacked her lips twice, sighing with content. "Too expensive. I told ya not to spend cash on the good Earl Gray. Not yet, Tavish. I just worry about the money flow."

She could not see it, but a wry smile slid over her son's face as he put his large hand on her frail, narrow shoulder, that popped up like a bony bulge under her pink cardigan.

"I wouldnae worry 'bout the cash flow, mum. I've made five million."

"Dollars."

"…yes dollars. It isn't exactly bad, is it?"

His mother shook her head, mumbling under her breath.

"'S not exactly pounds, either. If yer gonna make money, make sure they give you real money!"

"Dollars are real mon-"

"REAL," she said sternly, sending shivers down his spine as the last word was said flatly; "MONEY."

He was silent for a couple of moments before reluctantly responding.

" I'll, uh… I'll see what I can do."

"No, ya won't. Yer not tha' persuasive. If they're paying ya in Monopoly money you'd gladly take it. Not like yer Da."

She leaned back into her chair, her face becoming softer with melancholy and regret. She ran her hand across the picture once more. Though her eyes couldn't make out the image, it imprinted itself in her mind. Not in a photographic form, but more like a memory. She was sitting with her husband and son, a prodigy amongst the Demochildren. Her husband stood there, commanding Tavish to stand up straight. She remembered the voice, the brooding tone her son would later pick up from him. She remembered the click of the camera, and her son complaining about the blinding flash. She remembered when the family was whole, poor as church mice and twice as hungry, but they were together. Under the cold, lifeless glass there was an imprint. A memory, frozen on a grainy piece of paper, possibly even torn and battered, stained with tears, she couldn't really know. And she clung onto it, like a drowning man clutched a straw.

"I miss him, Tavish," she said, softer this time. "I really do. And every day. It...doesn't really matter, though. We'll meet up soon."

Her son said nothing. She said that she would meet up with him soon for almost two years now. There was no point in arguing with her anymore.

Instead he nodded and walked up to his mother, sitting on the armrest of her blue corduroy-covered armchair. He placed his arm around her shoulders, noticing that she was getting thinner and thinner each day. Her shoulders were dropped and she slouched, even though she considered this position she was in quite normal. Looking at this woman now, he wouldn't have guessed that this was the same hardworking woman who kept the family together. His mother was slowly, steadily falling apart. He looked at the clock on the wall. He would spend his free morning comforting her, he was sure of it.

But then again, he did not mind it.

There was one thing worse than her nagging and constant criticizing. Her loving nature turned her into an observer who couldn't even see what life had become, the beauty of it. Her dissatisfaction showed with every quick remark she threw at him, and all those questions about his various occupations. Still, he could put up with all of that. It was the least he could do.

Because deep down, in the darkness of his soul, he knew that there was one thing that he couldn't stand seeing. The image he thought of started as a blurry memory, arriving on the day when she had spent an entire day in her armchair, unable to stand up. It was her chair, blue and covered with a tartan blanket. A white cane was leaned on it. A cup of cold tea was cooling further on the side. Nobody was sitting, and the ruffled tartan was covered with a thick line of dust.

The image was becoming clearer and clearer each day. He hated it.

With a serious expression, she ran her thin, body fingers across his firm jaw and over his thick beard and nose. She managed a smile.

"You look like him, ya know that?"

Tavish grazed the surface f the photograph with his eye before he planted a kiss on his mother's moist forehead.

"I know, mum. Thank you," he said with a nod.


	2. Ms Morrison

The oversized kitchen glove was slightly torn on the bottom. She had to maneuver around the stringy gap as she firmly grasped a tray of piping hot cookies. Bringing it closer to her face, she inhaled deeply, savoring the sugary, warm aroma of the product of her craftsmanship. The last batch of chocolate-chip cookies was up. Just in time, too. Her son had already gobbled up all the other cookies. She balanced the tray, walking out of the kitchen and into the dining room.

Her son was sitting at the table, a half-eaten chocolaty snack hanging in his hand. He was babbling about work as usually, small crumbs flying out of his mouth. He only stopped talking when he needed to take another bit.

"So then-," he swallowed as he saw his mother walking into the room; "So then I take this wrench, right? And, uh, there's this guy I toldja 'bout, the German guy? Yeah. So anyway, he says that I shouldn't take the guy's wrench, he's fond of it or somethin'! And I say that he ain't the boss of me. So, uhm…"

He stopped for a moment, his eyes opened wide and ogling the steaming cookies placed in front of him. His mother sat across him, fixing the strands of her jet-black hair back into her voluminous bob and dusting off the flour off her floral-printed apron, covering her pale-blue dress almost entirely. She almost regretted wearing it today. Nice outfits and hot batter do not mix. Her son reached for one of the cookies.

"So," he continued; "I twist the thing in the air, just to show the guy how it ain't fair of him to keep his stuff away from me, right? And then BAM!"

He twitched his hand forward, almost dropping the cookie. Ms. Morrison narrowed her eyes. If he dropped it, he would be the one cleaning the crumbs, she decided.

"Long story short," he spoke with a full mouth; "the thing fell on my foot, three broken toes, I will neva' hear the end of it from that guy. Seriously. I mean, it's been four months, let it go already, jeez!" He said through a smile. His mother looked at him with wistful eyes, masked by the soft, mothering expression she set as her visage. She released a chuckle, her voice weak as her body slowly began to succumb to fatigue.

"You always were a clumsy child…" she noted.

"Was not!" He said defensively before his face was overtaken by a pained appearance. He hissed, moving back his body and darting his hand back to his chest. The palm was becoming red and sore, searing pain rushed through his nerves. He furrowed his eyebrows at the black cookie tray, as if it were its fault for being hot.

"Ow," he said, this time in a softer tone, blowing on his hand. At that moment, his mother regained some of her energy; just enough to run into the kitchen, grab a small, polka-dotted kitchen cloth and douse it with some icy-cold tap water. A long string of criticisms flew over her mouth.

"For God's sake, Bill! You're twenty-two years old, do I still hafta tell you that the tray is hot? Figure it out yourself, it's been in the oven for God's sake…"

She huffed when she pressed the rag on her youngest son's palm, her icy-blue eyes narrowed at the sensitive skin. At that point, the boy was considering keeping his hands bandaged even outside of battle, even at his own home.

"Well," his mother said, inspecting the area briefly before she returned to her seat across him; "It doesn't look too bad. I don't think it'll blister. Just be careful next time."

"Got it," he responded.

"But just to make sure, rub some of that balm on it. You know the kind, the new one I bought… Marigold ointment?"

"I thought we used aloe vera for this…" he said, putting the cloth on the side.

"No, I only have a smidge of it left, don't wanna waste it," she concluded, sitting back with a grunt. Her son lifted his eyebrow.

"Gee, thanks, Ma." The amount of sarcasm in that one statement was astounding. Realizing that the redness was gradually leaving the pale surface of his skin, he reached for another cookie, lifting up his hand as soon as he grabbed one, not wanting to risk getting singed another time. He already had experience with being singed, from sitting on the hot stove when he was nine to getting set on fire on a bi-daily basis. Though getting burnt by a cookie tray was not as painful, it wasn't at all comfortable, either. His mother watched his cautious movements, smiling to herself.

He ate the snack in exactly five bites. Or would have, provided that he hadn't stopped mid-way to look at his mother, who seemed to be silently judging every bite he took. Now, this young man did not mind being looked at while he ate. He was uncomfortable when he was looked at with such interest.

He chewed the crispy goodness slowly, resisting the urge to stuff the whole damn thing into his mouth. He maintained eye contact with his mother, neither one of them blinked. The young man because of his instinct that something bad would happen if he did, the mother because she was content with watching her son.

"It's amazing how much you can eat," she noticed.

"I'm building' up my strength, Ma. I'm an athlete!"

Through his full mouth, the word sounded like "aphleet".

"Please don't talk with your mouth full," she said sternly. "And come on, tell me about your life. I haven't seen you in ages!"

The boy gulped the foodstuff down, smiling at her sheepishly. His next words came out in a nervous chuckle. "It's, uh… it's been a month, Ma. Nothing much has changed."

"What?" She ticked her eyebrow up in surprise. "You didn't do anythin' in a week? No new promotions? No new acquaintances? No new lady friends?"

"Nuh-uh!" He said defensively. "There is this one broad-,"

"_Woman_, Bill."

"…woman. She's kinda like my boss."

"Bit of advice, hun," his mother said, leaning across the table and bringing herself just a little bit closer to him; "Don't get involved with your boss. It ain't gonna end well."

"Well she's like… ya see, my boss is her boss too, right? But uh… she does everything around there. Like, supply management, PR, marketing…" He ticked off the woman's obligations on his fingers. His mother nodded in understandable approval.

"She sounds like a hard workin' gal. What's she like?"

Her son stretched his mouth to the side, avoiding eye contact and making a noise that sounded like the wail of a dying cat.

"Eyyyyyyyyaaaaa… I don't think anything's gonna happen."

"Why not?"

"Well, uh… I ain't exactly, uh… I mean, I'm pretty sure she's interested and stuff, but she ain't showin' it. Hell if she's playin' hard to get," he raised his hands up to demonstrate him giving up; "That's her problem, not mine. I ain't stickin' 'round for nobody. Plenty more fish in the sea, know what I mean?"

"She's not showing interest? How the hell can that be, I bet all the other girls are just linin' up to see ya!"

Her son shifted his gaze to the side, shrugging with a self-righteous grin cemented on his face.

"Yeah, well…"

"Don't act all modest. Sure, you got the Morrison last name, but you got the Montagino good looks!" She said, pointing to herself.

The man always understood where he got his cockiness. And, admittedly, most of his facial features which he considered to be perfect beyond recognition. He chuckled at her little remark, but stopped when she became silent, standing up and taking his wrist in her hand. He blinked once at her, slowly standing up. He stood next to his mother, looking at the top of her head.

"I think I know what the problem might be," she said, rubbing her chin as she inspected her son's posture. "You slouch."

"I do not!" He defended himself.

"Really? So why did you stand up straighter as soon as I told you?"

He made another one of those noises of his, a strange coughing sound coming from the back of his throat, as if it were trying to express the boy's right to do so. His mother gently pushed his shoulders back.

"Look, it's no big deal, you just need a few uhm… corrections!" She lifted her finger up in the air as she found the word. "Just a few things."

"Like what?" He asked, never liking these little corrections. They would usually lead them nowhere, and would make him lose a lot of his patience. Ms. Morrison crossed her arms and tapped her foot.

"Oh, nothing drastic. Just… shoulders back, neck straight, feet together, chin out, gut in, chest out, hands to the side, keep them from flailing around your body-what did I say about the feet?- eyes straight and front, knees straight and maintain eye-contact with the person you're talkin' to."

He looked like a statue, obeying his mother's commands one by one until he was in the perfect position and in perfect discomfort. His mother noticed his unease and placed her hand under his chin, a smug grin stretching over her face.

"Now breathe."

Instantly, the boy's body plummeted downwards until he looked like a human question mark. He was slumping over himself for a brief period of time, trying to breathe between short bursts of gasps and skeptical laughter.

"Come on, Ma, nobody stands like that!"

Without a word, she gestured to her perfect posture, which she most definitely didn't have a second ago. Still, something had to prove the boy wrong.

"Look, you get my point. I'm just saying that you need to hold yourself with pride. You're a charming, wonderful young man!"

She gently touched his face and ran her thumb over his cheek, a strange glisten appearing in her eye. She smiled, though weakly.

"There's nothing wrong with being a little bit proud of yourself. You don't always have to be so quiet."

"Yeah." He shrugged. "Thanks Ma."

A loud yawn escaped him, and he covered his mouth only a second too late, which gave his mother just enough time to reevaluate her parenting skills. She looked at the cookie crumbs scattered over the smooth surface of the table, the small tidbits running over the pages of an old _Flash_ comic her son was reading. Ms. Morrison could probably pinpoint the very day he bought it. The fact that she knew so much about her son only made her smile with glee as she thought about the surprise that she had prepared for him.

"You're a little sleepy…" she noted, taking him by the forearm and leading him through the dining room. "Why don't you take a nap in your room? Just until dinner?"

"What, what I've had wasn't dinner?" He asked, his stomach already feeling like a balloon filled with sand. She gave him the usual statement about how she never let him eat sweets instead of a square meal when he was a child, and today would be no exception.

"And don't give me that 'no appetite' crap," she said, wagging her finger at him as they moved through the dark hallway. "That'll open up soon enough."

The two stopped in front of a medium-sized white door. The surface of it was covered with various shiny baseball stickers that had lost their original gleam with age. The man's name was spelled in broad, red letters. He almost seemed embarrassed by it. His mother was barely holding her excitement, wanting to rush him inside.

"I've been doing a little project in there since you left…" she said, curling close to his lanky arm. He scoffed.

"Really? I 'member takin' most of my stuff with me. Last time I saw this room it was basically a mattress and a couple of straps of tape. Whadja do, scrape the tape off the floor?"

Before he could say another word, she opened the door wide, and in came a dash of golden, gleaming sunlight. His jaw dropped and his body relaxed, losing all feeling in his limbs as he walked into his old room, unable to speak.

The smell that circulated around the room reminded him of the tang that would fill his nostrils whenever he opened a closet inside the storage room. It was the smell of age, but there was no dust, not even a speck of it. His eyes fell on his bed, covered with a linen sheet streaked with indigo lines, the rays of light crossing them diagonally in long, parallel lines that stretched as they reached the floor. Bill walked over the beige carpet, over the lines and stared at this room, reminding him a lot of his childhood abode. Large posters of Mickey Mantle and Babe Ruth were taped over the walls painted an odd yet soothing vanilla-yellow. But the man only gasped when he saw the biggest one, the poster set across his bed. It was of Cy Young, throwing a pitch. He grabbed his head, the look on his face depicting bewilderment and joy.

"Holy shi-!" He started before he sharply turned to the side, noticing something on his pillow. It was a brown stuffed animal, complete with the Boston Red Sox baseball cap.

"No." He slouched over it, his mouth stretching into a wide smile and more mindless chortles coming out of him. He ran his hand over the bear's soft felt, his attention detached as his eyes moved, basking in the golden glow of what seemed to be a step back into past.

There were a lot of comics filed neatly on his bookshelves, along with a baseball signed by Mickey Mantle and many trophies that he had won over the ages. His face morphed and twisted into the wide spheres and gilded stands as he moved, admiring their perfection, and his own reflection. He bit down his fist, remembering every detail about his childhood at once.

And of course mom just stood there, beaming.

"Holy crap!" He concluded, grabbing a tuft of his hair forcefully, trying hard to convince himself that this was not just a wonderful dream. "How long did this take ya?"

"Well… since you left this empty room's just been sittin' there… I figured, if you came over one day and didn't want to spend time in a nasty old hotel room…" she stretched out her arms nonchalantly.

"But… you must've worked on this like… forever. I mean, it's freakin' awesome!" His eyes switched from his blushing mother to the small wooden box, covered with a sheet of glass. He grinned at the familiar, grainy faces looking back at him.

"Aw, hell, my card collection! It's mint, just like I left it! Oh, wow… I-I-I even forgot I had this thing!"

"Well, near mint. You _did _take most of your stuff with you. Those I found in the basement. I just dusted them off and organized them the way you usually did; by batting record."

Believe it or not, the boy's bottom lip quivered as he heard his mother say those words. And as he looked at the surface of the cards, only making out small, unavoidable abrasions and no fingerprints, he was speechless for the first time in a long time.

"Ma…" he turned to her, unable to say another word.

And then, she sighed. Her left foot went over her right as she looked down, trying to gather much needed courage for her next proposal.

"Bill…" she said, the words slow and heavy, and suddenly the room seemed darker as the sun fell behind a dense cloud. The room turned gray, like a pond during rain.

"I want you back."

Her son turned to her, visibly confused.

"Back? Wha-whaddya mean?"

"I mean… I want you to come live here again. You-you already proved that you could make it on your own. You proved that you could do fine without me… and I think it's time you came back. I finally fixed up the room and everything. And by what I understand, your contract expires in a short while."

She looked at him, her eyes filled with glistening hope. Her boy said nothing. Even worse, he shook his head, a chuckle escaping him. Avoiding her quizzical gaze, he turned on his heel and sauntered towards the bed. The next words that came out of his mouth were spoken in a hollow, almost sardonic tone.

"Typical."

"Excuse me?"

Wringing his hands tautly, her son looked at her in disapproval.

"You… you always do this."

"Do what?"

"This!" He gestured to the room, that now looked more like a dark, flawlessly designed trap. "You manipulate me into getting what you want all the time! I shoulda known. The cookies, the doting, the room… you alphabetized the batters, for fuck's sake!"

Ms. Morrison convulsed at the vulgarity but decided against saying anything. Her son continued;

"Ya remember when I actually lived here? You were on my case the whole damn time! Every day, you told me to get a job, to move out, to make something of myself. And guess what, Ma!" He slammed his hand over his chest. "I did! I got a job, I moved out. You wished me good luck, I told you about my work, I visited you _constantly_."

He stressed the word, showing her his buck teeth. She did not speak, but her eyes turned watery and small red blotches appeared on her cheeks.

"And I finally get to be happy. I finally get to be my own man. And what do you do? You decide to drag me back down, just so you can get at me again! Well guess what Ma?! It ain't gonna work! I'm prolonging my contract, I'm making a life for myself, and I'm not gonna let you baby me anymore, Ma! I won't-!"

"I'm sorry."

The boy's eyes narrowed at his mother. He asked her what she meant, not expecting her to give in so soon. For a second, he looked at her in silence. The sound of her first sob made his heart shatter.

"I'm… I'm sorry if you think I'm trying to hold you down or something…" she said, wiping her nose with her index finger. She sniffed, two salty streams rolling over her hot cheeks. "I was just suggesting that you could come back after you're done. I see what a man you've become now… trust me, this was not some sort-a trap to keep you here!" She said, gesturing towards the walls and bookshelves. The boy followed her hand.

"But then, I… I saw you looking at those things… and I saw my baby again. And then it just came to me, that I miss you. I miss having you around here!" She sniffed, her lip trembling. She had to lower her head to her chest. "It's too soon. You left so suddenly, and I… I feel like I've lost my baby. I never even get to see you anymore. Your brothers never call, I don't see my friends that often, I… I'm lonely, Bill."

Her son gulped, half wanting to jump out of the window. It was a better option than sitting and watching her cry.

"Ma…"

"But I'm sorry!" She said, wiping her eyes and flicking away her tears. "I'm sorry I'm such a horrible, manipulative mother. You… you don't have to spend a second here, if you don't want to."

Just as she turned to walk away, her son called out to her. His voice was abrupt, almost panicking. He instructed her to sit beside him, on the springy bed. She looked at him over her shoulder and sat on the area he patted.

Her shoulders were dropped and her eyes set into the distance. It wasn't normal seeing her like this, Bill knew that. Gingerly, he grabbed the one-eyed bear by the name of Ace, tweaking his right ear. He spoke slowly, actually thinking about what he was saying.

"Look, Ma… you ain't a bad mom, ya know that? I'm just… I'm just tired, that's all. It's a shock, ya know. I mean… I'd love to stay in this place, but in two weeks… hell two days, we'd be all in each other's faces!"

His mother looked down, her icy-blue eyes giving no emotion. She didn't even look when her child lifted up the bear, covering his head as he spoke in a high-pitched tone.

"_Awww, don't listen to Bill. He's a freakin' knucklehead," _he said, rocking the bear from side to side. _"He doesn't know what he's talking about! You're a great mom! He's sorry you're lonely! And he promises to visit within means of his stupid-ass employment. Please don't stay mad at him… pweety pwease? Pwety pwease, pweety wady?"_

She tried not to say anything, but it was hard to keep a straight face with a teddy-bear patting her cheek while whining _come oooooon_ repeatedly. She snorted, chuckling at the bear and her relieved son. She batted her matted eyelashes dry.

"Alright Bill. I know what you were trying to say. I need to let you make your own decisions. It's just… been so hard lately."

"I know, Ma. I know it has. But you can make it through this, you can make it through anything! You made it through our financial crisis, you made it through the divorce… for God's sake, you made it through me!"

She laughed humorlessly.

"Yeah, I guess… but you were a help. A big help. You used to cheer me up a lot. Remember those tap shoes your grandma gave ya?"

"Sure I do!" He said, putting his arm around her. "She wanted me to take lessons, but I just took the shoes and didn't go a step further than that. I'd just dance around for ya… 'member, I even slept in them in case you needed cheering up in the middle of the night."

His mother smiled. At that very moment the sun escaped the clouds and the room took its original glow. Her son looked into the distance.

"You know what, Ma? I'm sorry I was a jerk to ya. I get that you're lonely. But… wouldn't it be easier to get a cat instead of asking your sons to move back in?"

"A cat?" She asked, lifting up her eyebrow. "I'm not that far gone."

"Fair enough. Just so ya know, I'm always here for ya, Ma. Tap shoes and everything… just a few dozen states over. Speaking of shoes, I wonder where ya put those old things…"

"Oh, they're in the blue shoebox in the hall. Never took them out since you last left them."

Her son pondered something for a minute, which was the longest he had thought about anything, before he stood up and made his way towards the door.

When he was out, the woman took a deep breath, wiping her eyes one last time.

She looked around the room, the memorabilia placed on the shelves, the posters taped to the walls, his entire childhood in a couple of square feet. Her hands crossed on her knees, she watched the sun scatter its beams on the floor. She was at ease. Her son cared for her, no matter how hard he tried not to admit it.

And in just a couple of short moments, she would see exactly how much he cared for her.

The sound coming from the hall was muffled, but became louder and brought a smile on her pale face.

_"Holy shit!_

_…_

_They still fit!"_


	3. Muriel Mundy

"But dad, Oi-!"

The Sniper leaned against the cold wall helplessly, holding the side of his head as he begged for it not to explode as he repeated the same thing for the umpteenth time. The voice on the other end of the telephone was strong and determined, seemed alert even though everything the Sniper had said to it bounced off straight back at him. It was like talking to a wall, and paying three dollars to do so.

He opened his mouth to speak again, but only a hoarse, cracking sound came out, not too different from the sound of the phone line, being occasionally broken up. The connection would come back, and a string of criticisms from the wall-father with it.

"Listen, Oi-!"

Of course, one might only assume that those two words would drag on another long rant, during which the Australian would grunt and lightly bang his head against the surface of the wall. He would repeat the action until his forehead was sore, or until his father ran out of breath, whichever came first.

But his forehead seemed to tire out quite quickly that day, even though his father hadn't stopped talking for even half a second, not even to catch his breath, not even when he dropped the phone in anger. The marksman closed his eyes, trying not to say something he would later regret dearly. At this point, it was futile to try and negotiate with this man.

"Dad…" he said through a sigh; "p-put mum on the phone, would ya?"

* * *

"And another thing!" Lawrence Mundy spoke sternly, clutching the phone handle tightly in his veiny, liver-spotted hands. His voice was croaked from all the talking he had submitted himself to, and he had trouble sitting up due to his aching back. He honestly had no idea what he was going to say next, but he couldn't have his son have the last word.

By the tempo he had set for himself, one would assume that he wouldn't let his son have any kind of word at all.

"If you don't leave that ungodly job I swear I'll leave you out of the will! When I die, this land is going to the sheep! You have one more chance to get off that high horse of yours and come back home, or else I'll disown you faster than a dingo tears up a baby!"

His son was trying to tell him something about that argument repeating itself several times over the course of a little bit over an hour that they were talking, but his father had no intention of listening too carefully. Instead, his old mind spewed out the most parental remark anybody ever thought of.

"Don't you get snippy with me, Victor! I know damn well I'm repeating myself! I bleedin' have to, seeing that you ain't listening to anything me or your mum say! But of course you don't care about that, being a crazed gunman an' all. You'd probably want her dead! If ya get enough money for a first-class plane ticked, you'd probably fly over here and off us yourself!"

His son was beginning to convince him how he would never do such a thing. But then again, who could possibly take his word now? An assassin, of all things! Lawrence's glasses were becoming foggy to a point where the old man could practically see his son standing before him as he scolded him. He stretched out his index finger, raising the tone of his voice for an octave.

"No, _you _listen! Me an' yer mum are tired of this charade of yours! Unless you want to come back and make your life as a decent human being, you might as well stop calling us here! Last thing we want is to get involved in one of your killing sprees!"

The door of the bathroom opened, and out came the sound of a flushing toilet. A small, round face peered out of the made gap, surrounded by frizzy, silvery hair.

"Is that Vicky, dear?" The old woman asked. Her husband did not need to respond to that question. He looked at the wall their bed was facing, and seemed angry enough to kick off the mushroom-colored blanket he was covered with. She slowly walked out, rubbing some ointment on her dry hands, the motion consisting of cupping her hands repeatedly.

"Listen, Vic, when I was your age, I-!"

The man suddenly stopped in time, his eyes looking into the distance much like a ewe looked at the slaughterhouse door. His lips moved to the side, his nose followed reluctantly. His wife sat on the side of the bed, her eyes shifting from the displeased look taped on her husband's face to the telephone he held in his hand.

He closed his eyes tightly and released a sigh, putting his middle and index finger together and gently rubbing the middle of his forehead. He did so briefly, before he spoke up again.

"You want to involve her in this? You want to anger her as well?"

Muriel's eyes widened, a glimmer of hope in them, a want to hear her son's voice. Lawrence furrowed his brow as he stretched his arm out to her; as though he were trying to demonstrate something to the person he spoke with over the phone.

"Well how the hell do you think she is? She's livid! And who could blame her? Having a murderer as a son, wouldn't you be?!"

"Oh, give me that, Lawrence!" She said condescendingly. The spiral cord stretched over him, and he was forced to lie down on his pillow as the wife hugged the handle close to her pale face. Lawrence folded his arms and sulked as she talked in a tone more cheerful than livid.

"'Ello, Vicky? It's mumsie, how are ya?" She said, ignoring the stare her husband threw at her, the _why-are-you-treating-our-murderous-son-as-a-five-year-old _frown. Her son spoke something about him being fine, in audible shock for being able to get a word in edge-wise.

"Oh, well that's good," she said as she smiled brightly; "It's good to have you out in the sun."

"Out in the sun?" Lawrence spoke with a temper. "I thought murderers only met up in dark street alleys, like drug dealers or prosti-!"

Muriel shushed him, her face finally forming something that could be considered a frown. The lines smoothened up as soon as she returned to talking to her son.

"Oh, I'm fine, dear. Workin' 'round the farm, flower arrangin', you know 'ow it goes… oh and putting up with your father. He's been a grumpy old foagie, as usual."

Her husband mimicked her speaking, looking into the ceiling and moving his lips while making an incoherent, high-pitched noise. Muriel reached out her arm by an inch, shaking it at him as she concentrated on a yellowish spot on the blanket, listening to her son intently.

"Oh, don't say that! Your father is a lovely person! And frankly, he has every right to be upset with you, just so you know," she exclaimed in a voice not much louder than her coos were, but in a voice much stricter. Lawrence looked at her, grateful that his wife still had a grain of a brain ticking away in that little head of hers.

"You have to understand, Vicky, me and your dad are never going to approve of what you are doing. Not after how we raised you, anyway. We were always trying to give you our love… at the very least, I was," she said, her frown shifting to Lawrence for a mere second before it darted to the side.

"… listen, I'm saying that I don't approve. I don't understand, and frankly I never will. But after all that, I am your mother. And as your mother, it is my duty to help you if you ever decide to return to the right path. No matter what you do, you'll always have a cozy old homely home to return to, love."

"He won't be getting anything if he keeps up blowing the heads off every poor bloke he don't like!" Lawrence said, slowly standing up until the white cord touched the bridge of his nose.

"Lawrence, that's enough," his wife said.

"Tell him, if he don't fix his act, I swear to God-!"

"I said that's enough, Lawrence!"

The spouses looked deeply into each other's eyes as Lawrence slowly descended back into his pillow. He huffed, and only then did his wife uncover the bottom end of the phone.

"I am so sorry about that, love. Your father cares for ya, honestly! He wants the best for ya. And please, consider changing your career. There must be some other use of your talent that doesn't involve…" she bit down her lip, looking for a propped word; "… pest control."

Lawrence heard the muffled voice of his son saying that 'pest control' was the best euphemism for his profession he had ever heard. His father couldn't help but to smile at the notice.

"Yes, well, I did not want that to sound cool, I wanted it to sound like it is! Now please, Victor, you can't possibly do that all your life, it's too dangerous! You can get shot or stabbed or mauled… not to mention, being a hitman is very antisocial. You can't connect with people if they know you're going to fly a bullet in their heads."

Lawrence agreed with himself that his wife was the worst negotiator in existence.

"And, besides," she started; "what kind of example would you be setting for little Dolores-!"

She hit her mouth with the palm of her hand, and held it there for quite some time. She slowly slid it downwards, hoping for a second that her son wasn't paying attention. Sadly, not missing a single detail was in his job description, so he ended up asking her what she said, and she ended up telling him.

"Oh, I can't… I promised her you'd hear that from her…" A smile spread through her face as she let out an exhale that seemed to calm her.

"Horace and Lu had a baby girl. And they named her… well…"

Lawrence noticed that it was getting quite late. He should have been asleep two hours ago, and his wife and son's silly rambling did not help him sleep at all. She enthused about the news more than she should have.

"Oh, I know! Everything's coming up roses for those two, isn't it? I mean, first they open up a small diner of their own, then they have a baby… I just saw Lucy three days ago. She looked absolutely fabulous! You know, keeping in mind she gave birth two weeks ago. Poor thing insisted that she looked like the victim of a bus crash. Nonsense, she looked fine! Anyway, she was asking about you. I didn't tell her where you worked at, I told her to tell you when you visit us over the holidays…" She stopped for a moment, listening to her son's question. "Well, if she is going to make you Dolores's godfather, you better tone it down with the murders, alright? I wasn't comfortable with Uncle Wallace being your godfather, and he only committed a bit of arson!"

"It's late, Muriel…" Lawrence said, bringing the blanket over his face as his eyes slowly closed under the lenses of his round spectacles. She ignored him.

"Oh and you must know, there is nothing people dislike in a crowd than a violent person. If you absolutely have to do that, do it until you raise enough money to live a decent life. This can't be your calling, it's too introverted!"

"It's late, Muriel!" He repeated in a sterner tone.

"Oh that? Your father sends his love. Anyway, if you ever come to your senses, please know that…"

"It's late, Muriel!"

His wife slowly ticked her nose to the side, huffing.

"…right. Well, love, I will be hearing you soon… love you, Vicky… kissy, kissy, mwah, mwah, mwah," she began, hugging the phone close to her before her husband snatched it and slammed it against the stand. It dinged as it made impact. Muriel placed her hands on her hips, frowning at him.

"That was not very nice, Lawrence."

"Oh, pipe down, ya old bat! Listen to ya, goin' on and on about Lucy and givin' 'im kisses whattsit...Why do you have to baby him so much, Muriel?" he asked, taking off his glasses and putting them on the nightstand. "He is a crazed gunman, don't let him tell you otherwise!"

"Well," she began, picking up the covers and shoving her legs inside; "you have to have a little fate in the boy. He sounds right in the head."

"All lunatics sound right in the head just before they blow your off! I can't believe some poor kid will have him as a godfather…"

"Come on, Lawrence! Lucy knows the man as much as we do, and-,"

"Not as much as we do, Muriel!" He insisted, extending his index finger and wagging it towards her. "She doesn't know he's insane. Besides, the girl is not the sharpest tool in the shed."

"Say what you want about Lucy, but she is a nice girl who knows what she's talking about!"

"Alright!" Lawrence said, throwing up his arms in faux agreement. "Out of the four people he ever had real contact with, he gets along with her well."

"Oh come on, there were more people…"

"Yes. Yes you were right. There were we, for example. There was Larry, his best mate. Oh wait, he's dead. There was Caroline, his girlfriend… also dead."

"He didn't kill 'em, Lawrence!"

"He might have!"

Lawrence sighed, turning off the lamp sitting at the nightstand as he pulled a small metal strand. It clicked itself off and left Lawrence's side of the bed in darkness. His arms fell limp to each side.

"I… I don't know what to make of him anymore. It's like he isn't even my son."

Muriel reached out her arm and coiled her finger around the metal strand on the red lamp on her own nightstand, sitting on the left. She looked at her husband, patiently awaiting something else he's say.

He didn't, and that's when she spoke.

"He will be alright. He'll find someone. He'll find something decent to do," she concluded as she turned off the light.

Her husband laid in the dark, looking over to her before she made herself comfortable in their bed. He gulped.

"And how do you know that? Huh? How do you know he'll change?"

"Because…" she smiled sweetly; "because _you_ did. Goodnight, Lawrence."

She gave him a goodnight kiss on the cheek before falling in the middle. He put his arms around her, embracing his muffin of a wife.

"Yeah. G'night, Muriel."

* * *

Meanwhile, halfway around the world, Victor Mundy dropped the phone back into its base, the conversation he just had seeming mentally exhausting. His eyes closed shut as he leaned his head against the wall. Solitude. Why was it such a bad thing again?

Footsteps echoed through the base, and the Sniper suddenly felt the urge to shoot whoever disturbed his peace. The urge only became stronger as a soft sound flew through the halls, which seemed like humming.

_"Master of the house, doling out the charm, ready with a handshake_… something something hmm…" The Spy hummed as he walked into the room, unfolding today's newspaper. The Sniper shot him an irritated look.

The Frenchman quickly caught the gaze, silencing himself and placing the newspaper on the small dining table. He leaned on his hand, laying his palm flat on the smooth surface of the paper, only slightly caring about the ink imprinting itself on his gloves. Being of inquisitive nature, he assumed that the Sniper had been talking to one or both of his parents.

"Phoning the family, are we?" He asked, tapping his fingers against the table. One tap led to another, one descended finger ascended the next. It was an act often mimicked by his teammates, though most of them would give up after two tries, as their digits weren't in good enough condition.

"Uh-huh."

"I see you're bothered."

"No more than usual."

The masked man's hand fell flat on the table. He looked at the Australian before releasing a sigh of impatience. He stood up and began pacing around the room, hands tucked behind his back.

"Why do you go on through this mental torture? You often seem a little short of miserable after chatting with them."

The Sniper sniffed, scratching his upper lip as he shrugged.

"Well, it ain't all that bad," he said, letting his arms fall on his sides, limp as strands of spaghetti. "First year of this, me dad didn' even talk to me. And me mum is still…well… mum."

"You did not answer my question," the Spy said, unmoved by the statement. "I asked you why you put up with them."

"Well I have to," he said, like it was implied. Possibly because it was. "Look, my folks have been there for me all my life. If there are two people who deserve to meddle, it's them."

The Spy nodded, still not understanding the marksman. He grabbed a cigarette from inside his jacket, along with a lighter.

He felt the marksman's eyes fall on the icy-blue circle of the lighter's flame, slowly being risen up to the small nicotine stick. It disappeared when a circle of smoke filled the room, and the Spy's stern expression with it.

It soon reappeared, however, when he looked at the Sniper.

"What?" He asked.

"I take it that your folks aren't a bit intrusive at times."

The Spy spoke after a moment of silence. "I'd rather not say…"

"Oh, come on."

"I cannot speak ill of the dead, Mundy."

"Yeah, but, before that!"

"Look," the Spy snapped, craning his neck towards the nosy Australian he hadn't wished to speak to about the subject; "I had no trouble with my parents, now drop the subject."

And he would. The marksman would have gladly dropped the subject if he hadn't caught the man's eyes darting to the side, his cigarette being brought to his mouth hastily, disabling him to say another word. There was that look that not even the best actor could dare hide behind a cheery mask of peeling color. That was the look he saw. It was of grudge.

The Sniper smiled, taking a seat on the top of the table.

"You know what, Spook? Me mum used to tell me…" he said to the Spy who stood near him, smoking a cigarette with detached interest. "When a person has some unresolved issues, he tends to hide them. Like a child putting his broken toy behind the cupboard so his parents wouldn't find out, or like a politician placing a border between counties, not wanting the rich to mix with the poor."

The Spy barely grazed the man with his look. The cigarette burned away rather quickly.

"Ya see," he continued; "you put a brick over something you can't or won't deal with. That brick becomes two bricks, two bricks become a wall. And while you seem fine with it, the wall just starts to surround you, suffocate you, and pretty sure you're buried by a crap-ton of bricks."

The Frenchman snorted at the conclusion. But the man was now looking, asking for a response that he did not prepare. He gingerly turned towards him, ticking his head to the side.

"And what do you suppose I do?"

The Sniper shrugged.

"Just… take down a brick."

* * *

The man paid no attention to the man's philosophy. He shook the thought off, he left the room. He did not consider the man's words the next day, nor the day after that.

But one day, as he rummaged through his belongings, trying to find his beloved weapon, engraved with an image of his beloved, he stumbled across a box. He puffed on it, a cloud of dust rising up. And it was the contents inside that made him sit down and think. The grainy, black-and-white image made him realize what kind of wall he was dealing with.

He removed a brick that day. Unfortunately, it was the wrong one.


	4. Madame Chaput

**A/N: **I'm making this my last chapter. I don't think the fandom can handle another female original character, even if it is a mother.

* * *

The young boy hissed as the high-concentrated alcohol was dabbed onto the cut with a small cotton ball. His mouth twitched, and his fingers clutched the table he was seated upon, so that he could be at the young woman's eye-level. And at that level, he could see the worry and sympathy in her eyes, while she almost reluctantly inched the cotton towards the wound on his head. Something about that gaze comforted him. Even though she was about to cause him more pain, she would be doing so with good intentions.

He shut his eyes and cringed as the young woman took away the cleansing tuft of soft material soaked with tangy, transparent liquid. In her soft, calm tone, she explained how sorry she was, and how her next action would be far less painful.

The soft tissue was pressed tightly against the wound, secured by a long gauze strip, which went over the boy's head a number of times before the end of it was tucked into one of the layers. The woman did not admire her handiwork. She knew how the boy fidgeted in his sleep, having frequent night terrors that would leave him confused, scared, or in some cases, curled up under his bed for fear of falling asleep. And even if those nightmares would not occur, the boy would still toss and turn. The strap would slide off his head no matter how tightly she pressed it on.

The boy's eyes followed her nervously, looking at the locks of her hair bounce and sway when she opened a small drawer of the large wooden armoire, rummaging through its contents as her tongue slipped out of her mouth and her gaze darted to the ceiling, trying to focus on finding the elusive item. His eyelids seemed heavier than usually. There was barely any light in this room, apart from a small, gilded oil lamp that shone a faint glow. There was no moon that night, only pitch-black sky and draftiness. Not even his home seemed pleasant at the moment; a grand villa with a picturesque garden on the outside had the interior of an abandoned lodge cabin.

He barely closed his eyes for a moment, and at that moment, he could see the soft whimper of an older female relative of his, standing at the doorway and not wishing to set foot inside the room, though she wished to, and wished badly.

The young woman took out a small piece of fabric that looked like a small sack with holes in it. She slowly approached the small boy. He examined the item with interest. She showed it to him, raising it up and crumpling the fabric in her pale palms.

"This belonged to your father. He wore it during to war at times, it kept him warm…" she started, trying to familiarize the boy with the alien article.

"And sometimes, it helped as a compressor; to staunch his wounds… it helped them heal quicker."

Seeing the discomfort in the boy's icy-blue eyes, she smiled and placed a tender kiss upon the fabric. The action, no matter how insignificant, seemed to relax him.

The fabric was slipped on him. It was quite big for his head, but the mouth hole was where it should be, though he tugged at the top of it and squinted through the small circular gaps. The thin line of cloth pressed against his nose, which made breathing slightly more difficult. He then knew what it was. It was a makeshift wrap for his wounds. It was a mask. A balaclava.

Quite quickly, he found himself burying his head in the woman's neck, a delightful aroma of green apple shampoo and rain.

He was scooped up quickly, the young woman grunted. She noticed that he was getting heavier, already the height of one of her arms and then some. He looked strange, hidden inside that mask. He was a monster, a freak. There was something that needed to be hidden under the red cloth, a mother's creation at its worst. The two approached the person standing at the door, looking at them with her cigarette lit and dangling in between her fingers. Her mouth moved to speak, but out came a croaky voice and little with it.

It was intended to be an apology.

The young woman nodded, gently putting the boy down on the bare floor. He looked at the two, anxious to listen in or partake in their ensuing argument, though there was little chance of that. He still knew that he would be sent outside, into his bedroom. This did not mean that he wouldn't listen, kneeling at the stairway and picking up every bit of information on the incident concerning the vine-covered balcony.

He never could listen to these grown-up talks, anyway.

"Adrien," the young woman said, trying to act stern; "go upstairs. I will put you to bed in a moment."

He nodded and ran outside, up the stairs and behind a marble column, where the sounds coming from downstairs were most audible.

The young woman sighed, looking at the one in front of her. She was still smoking, her eyes hazy and her voice dry.

"I'm sorry."

The curly-haired woman furrowed her brow at the smoker, her voice hollow.

"There is no excuse for this, mother. There is nothing you can say to solve this."

The woman's head fell on her chest, raising it with a certain reserved grace proved to be quite difficult. She spoke the younger woman's name in a tone a stern schoolmaster would use to address a mischievous student.

"Lorraine…"

"No!" She said, her arms stretching out as soon as she took her first furious pace. "No, there is absolutely nothing you can say at this point! There is nothing _I _could say at this point!" She suddenly came to an abrupt halt, fury coming out of her eyes. Her voice was strong and unyielding. "Why do you keep doing this to him? Why do you keep doing this to me? I know you couldn't possibly hate him so much, but then…why?"

The woman took a drag from her cigarette as her shoulders dropped in shame. She remained silent for a moment. Merely a moment, and then her voice was barely a timid whisper.

"I… I thought he would bounce."

Eyes widening in disbelief and anguish, Lorraine suddenly felt weak in front of this woman, who she used to call her mother but now couldn't even call her human. Her hand was pressed firmly against her mouth; the other hand was holding her elbow that she laid on her stomach. It took her a moment to steady her breathing. Though her heart was beating quickly, each beat resembling a strong kick to her very core, she forced herself to act calmly. Her voice was stable, though her frame was shaking like the skin of a drum.

"You dropped him."

"He fell…"

"From your arms, mother! What was he even doing up on the balcony? What was he even doing with-?"

She was going to ask what he was doing with her, his mother, but her sense stopped her from saying the vile sentence in the nick of time.

And the woman stood. She simply stood like a mannequin, too shocked to show emotion or too cold to care.

"And what's more…" Lorraine began, seeing that the woman was not going to speak; "the shocking part was not the dropping. As much as it pains me to admit it, it is possible that this was just another accident."

Her fists clenched. An accident. That is how they would end up calling the incident.

"… the accident does not bother me. What bothers me is your reaction."

Their eyes locked, the air seemed electric between the barriers of ice and midnight blue.

"When a child falls, the mother picks it up," the young woman began to explain, mimicking the gesture. The imaginary child in her arms was held up just long enough for her mother to feel another surge of guilt rush through her spine like a cold, steel blade. Her daughter continued; "The mother calls help. The mother does everything in her power to keep the child safe. You know what a mother doesn't do?"

She took a step forward, a motion that was supposed to come off as intimidating. Her mother did not budge.

"A mother does not go back inside the house. A mother does not sit down and have a cigarette! A mother does not wait for her daughter to come home and find her brother covered in dirt and blood, and refuses to tell her what happened!"

"He was only like that for five minutes!" She responded, nudging her head towards the girl. Lorraine was livid, flames bursting through her eyes.

"Are you using that as an excuse!?" She screamed.

The short silence that ensued was decorated with the pitter-patter of small, possibly scared feet that looked for refuge behind a large marble column. The two women both noted the sound, both feeling ashamed and judged.

"I… I was in shock," the woman began to explain.

"In shock? What shock? The same shock you had with the cupboard accident? Or the same shock, possibly, that you had with the stove incident? You have been having a lot of those accidents lately. Right now, I'm in such a position that I feel the need to guard him while you're giving him a bath, hoping that you will not stick his head under the water."

The observation was stated without a hint of irony. The following words were said with even less warmth.

"You know, I thought I understood. I really did, but now… I don't even know."

"It isn't me, Lorraine!" The woman said, clutching her chest. Her own heart was beating, she could hear the blood rushing through her. "I… I don't know what happens. I look at him, I play with him, and suddenly… I'm reminded of your father. He has the same eyes, the same look of disinterest…"

The young woman's eyes wandered off to the mantelpiece above the fireplace that had no fire burning inside of it. She could barely make out the frame of the photographs, but she knew it was there; the image of her departed father, the man who left this bleak world before he could even witness the birth of his son. He stood on the sill, in his military uniform, crisp and olive-green. He always seemed to be facing east, his eyes covered with an oddly silver film. Lorraine loved those eyes of his. Though cold at first sight, she knew they were loving eyes.

Her mother continued, looking at the gray photograph herself.

"It's so hard without him… when he left us, I needed to keep this family together. I worked my fingers to the bone to provide for you and Adrien…" She looked at her freshly-manicured hands, the white tips of her fingernails shining as they were hit with the lamp's faint gleam. She quickly put them away.

"I will never forget the suffering."

Her daughter had heard this speech before. In fact, it seemed to come up more and more frequently. And this time, and this time alone, she had a response that wasn't just a humble apology for her rash behavior.

"Mother," she started, "I know it has been hard. I will forever appreciate what you have done for us, but you know what? Those wounds… they are not exactly fresh."

Her mother nodded, though not in agreement.

"I know you miss him, but at this point, it's past grieving. At this point, it's ridiculous to obsess about him so much! Is it really Adrien that triggers your episodes? Is it really his fault for picking up my father's genetic traits? How long is this going to last? Are you going to keep on torturing him until he is old enough to join the army? Until he has a family of his own?"

"I do not torture him!" The woman said, throwing her cigarette butt into an empty ashtray on the table. "I do not torture him, I love him!"

"If you truly loved him you wouldn't put him through this!" Lorraine exclaimed. "If you really loved him, you wouldn't put him through hell!"

"It's not me! I don't know what triggers those reactions of mine, but it isn't me!"

Her voice was weak, cracking. But this time, it was the daughter who was left unmoved.

"I believed you. I believed that the stress has gotten the better of you, but now I know the problem. It is not the memory of my father haunting you; it is not Adrien being an unruly child. I know now why you purposely endanger your son. It's simple, really…"

The girl walked towards the older woman, until she was close enough to reach out and rip her heart out. And as she spoke the following words, Madame Chaput wished that she had done just that.

"You are a horrible mother."

"…take that back," she said with a lowered brow.

"A bloodhound would make a better mother than you."

"Take it back!" She repeated, becoming red in the face. Her eyes filled with tears that could have been pure rage.

"If you regret him not having a father, don't deny him a mother as well!" She said, pointing her index finger at her. The woman grabbed her hand and pushed it away, sharply and leaving the girl in moderate pain as the shoulder cracked and moved around in its socket.

"I am not denying him a mother! I care for him, I love my son! It's not my fault he doesn't love me back!"

Her eyes twitched as tears poured down her cheek. They left glistening marks in long, uneven strips that travelled all the way down to her neck.

"Every time I hold him in my arms I feel nothing. And I know he feels nothing as well. He moves around and cries, and then I hand him to you and he's… he's… calm."

Saying the words physically hurt her. She fiddled inside her pocket and took out a small lighter. She squeezed it in the palm of her hand. She gasped, holding in her emotion, or at least trying to.

"I really try. I try to be a good mother to him, like I was with you. But then I see him, staring blankly at me…" her eyes filmed over as she gasped; "…and he cries, provoking me, though he knows that I'm tired and trying to please him, he just keeps on crying. And it's not normal crying! It's like I'm tearing off his skin, like I'm choking him… and I just-just… I can't!"

The lighter flew across the air, past Lorraine and into the framed photograph of her husband. Several cracks moved over the glass, and his figure was lost in a milky web.

The girl turned after hearing a sob. Her mother fell on her knees, letting out sobs into her curled-up fist. Her fingers coiled; every now and then she released a long whine, a cracking wail.

And then it was all too clear to her. She was a horrible mother. She did not move as her daughter passed her, not even trying to comfort her. She laid on the cold wooden floor, listening to Lorraine putting her brother to bed, cooing lullabies before slowly creeping out of the room. She was supposed to be the one to do that, she mused as her mind wandered from one dark thought to another. Not the girl.

The girl did not know about suffering. She never will. She will never know about losing a lover and a best friend, she would never know about working to provide for your family until the spirit breaks and the fingers begin to bleed.

She envied her.

That night would be the last night she really spent inside their home. The money she made would still be coming in. She would still visit them after work before going to spend the night somewhere else, building the illusion that the boy still had a mother, a poisonous, cancerous mother she was.

That was the last night she put her baby to bed.

* * *

_Hush now baby, baby don't you cry._

He looked oddly peaceful that night, like she knew that she was soon going to leave. She dropped her suitcase to her side, looking at the clump under the silk bed covers. She slowly made her way towards him, the floorboards creaking under her numb feet.

_Mama's gonna make all of your  
nightmares come true…_

His chest rose, slowly moving the blanket upwards and downwards. He had no night terrors. He was calm, relaxed, almost unaware of the wound on the back of his head. Maybe the wound caused more damage than she thought it would.

_Mama's gonna put all of her fears into you…_

Of course she was going to see him again. She had to make sure that he knew who his real mother was, instead of becoming overly attached to that girl. With the corner of her eye, she noticed that his shoulder was slightly uncovered.

_Mama's gonna keep you right here  
under her wing.  
She won't let you fly but she might let you sing…_

The fabric was soft and sleek. She tugged at it, placing it gently over his exposed flesh. He exhaled on her hand, his breath seemed smooth and sweet. It brought a tear to her eye. Not being able to resist, she crouched over him and stroked the balaclava, biting down her trembling lip.

_Mama will keep baby cozy and warm…_

"Adrien," she spoke softly. She sighed.

"It's not your fault mommy became this way."

Her palm moved across his face, and for a second, she thought she had noticed a smile. But that must have been the dark playing evil tricks on her mind, as the smile returned into a contempt frown, the one she had become used to seeing from him. He really did resemble his father.

"It's not your fault…" she repeated.

"Not completely."

_Of course Mama's gonna help build the wall…_

* * *

The hot New Mexican sun burned the sandy ground, dooming every poor man who might have found his way there. He did not mind the heat. He had become numb to it.

He moved away from his little experiment. _Of course _it had to be that photograph. Of course it had to be. His father in that crisp uniform of his, the surface scratched and stained with tears and cigarette burns. With narrowed eyes, he took a step back. The photograph hung taped to a wooden practice target, the one of himself. The figure's blank eyes reminded him of his own.

The revolver let out four shots, and they all hit the photograph, destroying it. This brought no pleasure to the Spy. He was still furious at her, still despised every speck of her being. The man really did look like him. A strange thought popped into his head. If she really loved the man, why was she so looking forward to destroying one of the few things he left behind? Was she really that insane?

He picked up the bottle of wine that stood near his feet. He had already taken a sip before. He popped open the cork and started draining it down until there was only half of it left. And then, holding onto it like a security blanket, he stumbled into the dessert. He needed to leave, he needed to run away from the memory that fell onto him, like a pile of bricks. Though the secure zone of his mind was now shattered, the debris still managed to fall around him. He stumbled through the bright darkness of the desert, under the burning, white iron sky.

He was imprisoned. His suppressed thoughts now ran free, inside his damaged wall.

_Mother, did it need to be so high?_


End file.
